The Impulse of Lyrical Suicide

At this rate, I'll probably have a song written sometime in the near future.

In the meantime, just some basic novel writing, I guess.

Today wasn’t very positive at all, not really.

These days I have a lot less time to myself.

I’ll get it back soon, I suppose.

Calamity is calm again.

I need new words in my life.

The weight of the world comes crashing down. 
All we’ve found

Are skeletons

And paperclips

And people that we used to know…

& If they love you to death?

Never die on ‘em…

Must I remind you I'm only here to twist you?

I almost cried on the staircase. 
I managed to compose myself at least.
Which is good.

Right now, I am home but the house is foodless.
I don’t really feel well anymore.

I don’t like today.

Can we start over?

The Jacket: (A personal narrative.)

“Where’s my jacket?”

She noticed it as they were packing to leave. It couldn’t be far, she reasoned—she remembered sliding it on as she prepared to leave school to walk five blocks for a quarter’s worth of candy, only to arrive at the store penniless, shocked. Five blocks walked back to the school, a little more than hungry and empty-handed.

“Do you check the classrooms?” 
“I’ll go do that now.”

So she went back, checked the classrooms. Of course, they were empty now—desks aligned in crooked rows and columns, chalkboards tagged with the handwriting of various kids who felt the need to sign their name—she being one of them. She tried to backtrack through every room she could remember she’d been, but they were all jacketless, just like her.

“I can’t find it,” she said, a little worried now. 
But her friend couldn’t stay to help her look. It was late, she explained apologetically, and she had a lot of homework so…
She nodded, said she understood. Dismissed her, hugged her goodbye.

She went up to the security desk in the lobby. “Have you seen a black jacket?” she asked. A black jacket, she thought to herself. Gee, because that really narrows it down.

“Have you checked the lost and found?” 
“No,” she said. She went to look, but it wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t there. She had never expected it to be.

At that point, she was hopeless. To top off the fuckery that was her day, she was left with no choice but to go home into the cold without a jacket.

She gathered her stuff, and was almost out the front door when the security guard looked up and noticed her. “You didn’t find it?”

“No,” was her quiet reply.  
They told her there was unclaimed jacket she could take if she wanted to, as long as she promised to bring it back.
Was it pity she sought or a shoulder to cry on? Right now, she didn’t know anymore. She just knew she was cold, alone and a little uncertain.
Hesitating, reluctantly, she accepted.

So there she was, the girl at the bus stop, standing in the cold, clinging to a stranger’s jacket. And she couldn’t help but wonder who it belonged to, how they’d lost it, if the circumstances had been similar to hers: a series of unfortunate events, and a uncanny habit of misplacing things.

But she didn’t get much time to wonder—it wasn’t long before the bus pulled up in front of her and she was sliding her Metrocard out of her purse and stepping on, a listen closer to home.

I don’t care what anyone says, I have dreams—plans—of having my own little office with neat little room, all designed to aid in the creative process. It would help, I think.

I like the image of myself behind a desk, deep in thought.
Coffee mugs strewn aside, late nights of lost sleep.

What appeals to me the most is just the solitude.
Better than fighting over my computer and reading instead of doing homework, and looking for pens when the ink runs out.

Such a long way to go.

It’d be so much easier to just…not.

It’s my conscience that fails me.

Phone convos with the bestiee.

I’ve missed this. Boy troubles & gossip. The usual. :)

Also, currently multitasking. Homework & everything.

formspring.me

Heeeeeeey there(:

Hello!
Kinda cheery, sleep on verge.
Borderline exhaustion, yeah.
Reporting live from the dining room table and I have a ton of things I ought to be doing.
Priorities.
Small list, really. I just procrastinate.
I wish I’d stop.
Seems like every minor action is so detrimental.
It gets under your skin.
But hello, how are you?
Cause I’m okay. Barely.

Donate your thoughts & change.

Blah.

Being exciting sounds dangerous, and with anxiety like mine, I’ll never master it. With my kind of mother, I’d never get away with it. I wonder about what it’d be like if she was far more lenient. Her worries have never been my own—she seeks to protect me from things that hardly cross my mind. This is not her generation so she’ll never understand. I feel caged and I feel a little less than everybody else, and for that reason my own kids will probably have a little more freedom. So they won’t be as boring as I am, cause my life isn’t much.

Just to prove her wrong.